


Well... This is my bed....

by roliver4



Series: "Maybe You Don't Write Enough..." [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Short One Shot, inspired by a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:17:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roliver4/pseuds/roliver4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin stumbles into the apartment of a complete stranger and crawls into bed with her and they become instant lovers.... seriously.... read no more.... just kidding... shut up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well... This is my bed....

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a buddy who told me about how she woke up pants less in bed one day. I just elaborated a little more.   
> http://shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com/  
> follow that  
> i follow back  
> let's be friends

The pounding in my head was almost too much to handle. I mean, really, how much liquor could it have taken to be loud enough to feel the cadence in my fingertips? Fuck! Before I even opened my eyes, I knew that something was weird-- but of course it was, I got ripped shitty last night. You see, I, Clarke Griffin, don’t get drunk. I am a powerhouse of a human being and have never been slizzered-- not until last night at least.

See, when movies depict the hangover after an amazing night of dancing with friends through glow lights and loud music, they don’t give the tempo in your brain and the cramping in your stomach justice.

And that’s when it all started to come back-- just in time to come up.

Turning quickly in the bed, I heaved violently, throwing my face over the side of the comfortable box which I had found myself in just in time to projectile vomit last night’s endeavors all across the wooden floor below...

But wait...

I don’t have wooden floors...

And more importantly, I’m not wearing any pants...

“Ohh Jeez,” a soft voice from the corner sings out before I catch a glimpse of mahogany hair disappearing through the door frame. The movement of my head to the side was too much for my senses and I began puking again, feeling my insides spasm each time that I heaved, whether anything came up or not.

Puking is not graceful. I don’t care what the movies say about that either. When Kiera Knightly or Olivia Wilde puke, they return without a mouth full of bile and ready to take on the world. Me, I’m disgusting. I mean, I know it’s not supposed to be, pretty but I swear to god I’m the absolute worse when I vomit. It’s loud and uncontrollable and it seriously never ends until I have given all of my intestines as an offering to the gag-reflex gods.

Closing my eyes, I simply let it happen, knowing there wasn’t stopping it until every ounce or rum, tequila, vodka, ever clear, moonshine, and whatever the fuck else I managed to take down had left my system.

Shuddering as I exhaled through my mouth, I allowed the drool to fall from my lips, joining the contents of my stomach below-- that was until I felt a hand on my back. It was soft and delicate-- not like when Raven and Octavia would drunkenly swat at my back in attempts to sooth my undergraduate heaving during sorority parties and tailgates. No, this was gentle-- like the touch of someone who has their shit together.

Looking up, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, apologizing as my eyes trail up the blue button down, stitches neatly pressed into place until the top button which holds close to the amber skin underneath, a solid jaw line separating possibly the most perfect, flawless face that I’ve ever seen from the thin frame below. Her green eyes glanced over softly before turning back to the floor, the same brown locks that fled the scene earlier outlining the corners of her face and falling gradually onto her shoulders.

You know in movies when the two main characters that are destined to fall in love make eye contact for the first time and some cheesy song like _First Day Of My Life_ by Bright Eyes plays quietly in the background? Yeah, that’s bullshit, but if it wasn’t, that kind of shit would have been happening when I finally reached her eyes. She looked at me like I had meaning, like she was concerned.

And then I realized it.

She was concerned... and of course she was...

“Where am I?” I asked her, turning my head almost too quickly again. Swallowing down the mass of my stomach that was attempting to flee through my throat, I settled from closing my eyes and allowing the stranger to lull me back to a lack of vertigo with her words. Her voice was just as calming as the rest of her, but of course it was...

I mean, why wouldn’t perfection be met with perfection?

“Ummm, well, this is my bed.” The awkwardness that radiated from her was only emphasized by the way that she removed her hand from my back, pushing a distance between her body and mind in the bed. “You came into my apartment last night and got under my blankets.”

“I what?!” I shouted, whipping my head around quickly just to be met with the brick wall of nausea, forcing my head back down to the cliff-side of the bed. It was then that I noticed the towel and massive cooking pot strategically placed below my face. So, she’s a veteran. O

nce my yacking was done for yet another time, I turned back to the stranger, slowly this time-- having learned my lesson. “I’m sorry, I did what?” I asked her again, my accent stumbling through my words as my focus tore itself between being understood and not blowing chunks over this woman’s bedroom again.

She smiled, her soft lips curling under as her perfectly white teeth revealed themselves. Of course she has a perfect grin too. With her eyes still scrunched into a smile, she spoke again, repeating the same words with little elaboration. “You came into my apartment last night and got under my blankets.” She offered a small snort before ushering to the room around her. “This is my bedroom.”

And of course it was. Everything in the room was meticulously placed and color coordinated in a black and baby blue theme. From the spotless mirrors in the wall above the dresser in their black frames to the forget-me-nots in a silver vase on an end table in the corner-- the old, rustic luggage stacked up as a table next to a cloth chair that looked like it stepped straight out of the 1920s, this woman’s room was like Pinterest vomited all over a New York penthouse. I mean, she had French doors opening into the living room for fuck’s sake... and to make it worse, the living room couch was white. Who the fuck has a white couch?

Apparently Alexandria Rosalyn Rossi does...

“How the fuck did I get here?” I mumble, continuing to explore the room slowly with my eyes. There weren’t any pictures or trash, no posters on the walls or anything to indicate that anyone lived her. Hell, It looked like one of those model homes that you walk through when renting an apartment-- you know, all perfect and matching-- like fucking Bed, Bath, and Beyond furnished her life.

“I guess you walked,” she jokes, tapping the towel below with her covered foot. You know, for her being as put together as she seemed, blue button up tucked into her beige jeggings, the grey converse on her feet told a different story, the tatters outlining the sides of her toes.

Who the fuck is this woman?

And that’s when I let it slip.... “Who the fuck are you?”

Then it began. You know the musical montage of the two people talking over the course of the next few weeks, visiting different coffee shops and doing cute shit like nudging each other through their coats while walking down the street, bonding over making dinner at each other’s apartments and inevitably having a food fight after one shoves some of the pasta fazool or homemade ice cream in the other’s face? Yeah, that’s bullshit too.

I mean, maybe it will happen like that for you, but for me, it was more of a handshake-- a handshake and a smile.

“I’m Lexa,” she said with a small smile, offering me her hand which I, of course, took. She had a strong grasp of my fingers and I knew in that moment that she had an even stronger grip on my insides. Shuddering when she released my hand, I laughed it off, blaming it on the tequila in my system. “Yeah, I don’t drink tequila for that reason... I always end up taking my clothes off.”

The moment of silence shared between us as we internally prepared ourselves for the laughter that was about to begin gave me just enough time to notice some other things-- very crucial and important things. The freckles that lined her eyes did their best to cover a small scar over the bridge of her nose, but still failed. She wasn’t used to smiling, which as obvious by how awkward she seemed when she laughed, lowering her face behind her hair or her hand. When she listened to me speak, she listened with all of her-- her eyes, her lips, her entire existence.

If nothing else, lying in those fluffy, white bed sheets surrounded by calming and soothing organization, I realized two very important things.

  * Tequila makes my pants come off.
  * Maybe Romance movies aren’t too far off from the truth.




End file.
